


The Hunt

by INMH



Series: The Fruits of Mercy [12]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Blood, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Fruits of Mercy series. Grayson finds himself on the wrong end of a Vampire.





	The Hunt

**[-The Eleventh Day of October, 1887-]**  
  
Grayson was almost certain he was being followed.  
  
He’d been on high alert ever since Alastair had posited that Hastings was having one or both of them trailed by lesser Vampire associates, and now it seemed that his vigilance had finally paid off. Someone- or some_thing_\- appeared to be following him from above, hopping across the rooftops. Aside from his current sensitivity to danger, Grayson was over five-hundred years-old: He’d developed a sixth sense for when someone was shadowing him.  
  
Especially when that someone was arrogant enough to think they couldn’t be spotted by a mere mortal.  
  
Grayson debated his options. He was in Whitechapel, closer to the edge where the City of London met the Strand, and it occurred to him that he might be able to shake the tail if he went to a more open and populous area. This was undesirable, if only because that also meant that _he_ would be more visible to the populace as well; and while his (suspected) Vampiric tail might only be following him, if he encountered any Knights or authorities in the Strand or the City of London, that would end with something much worse than simply being followed.  
  
Still, Grayson did not know how long he had been tailed, or where he had been tailed _to_. He could not assume that Hastings and his associates knew about _Aux Belles Muses_, or any of the other Rebel hidey-holes in Whitechapel. Leading the Vampire back to the brothel, or even in its general direction, was entirely disagreeable.  
  
Alright, so option three:  
  
Lead it somewhere secluded, and kill it.  
  
Even if anyone in Whitechapel saw, they likely wouldn’t report it. Hell, even the Lycans might not report it if they saw; Alastair claimed that they weren’t especially fond of the Vampires, even if they were allied with them. Thankfully, Grayson had become more than acquainted with the darker, abandoned spots in Whitechapel in his time with the Rebellion. Witnesses aside, it was best to keep a fight away from civilians.  
  
He ducked down a narrow alleyway, careful to move with purpose and not make it obvious that he was keeping an eye and ear out for his stalker. This particular path he was heading on ended in a dead-end, a small square patch of land near a pub that was often used for brawling in the wee hours of the night (or morning, as it were). The pub was shuttered during the day, doing all of its business in the evening, and so that one small patch of land should have been unoccupied by civilians.  
  
When Grayson reached the end, he was gratified to find that small area absent of people; he could neither see nor hear anyone, and that was good, because once the scuffle started they’d have plenty of warning to get clear. He turned his head slightly catching a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye on the rooftop above. It was unnerving that this was all the warning he had: Despite moving across the rooftops of Whitechapel, notoriously in terrible disrepair, his stalker had not made a sound.  
  
“You may as well come out,” Grayson barked, unsheathing his knife. “I know you’ve been following me.”  
  
It was a gamble: Depending on the Vampire’s orders, it might retreat upon being confronted; also, it had been a very, _very_ long time since Grayson had fought a Vampire, and they were notoriously more difficult than Lycans. He almost hoped that this one wouldn’t take the bait.  
  
So, naturally, it did.  
  
The Vampire seemed to drop from the heavens, landing on the ground with barely a sound. It was transformed, face twisted into something ghoulish; in some ways, seeing a transformed Vampire was worse than seeing a transformed Lycan, because they still looked human _enough_ for things to become uncomfortable.  
  
“Hello human,” The Vampire purred, red eyes fixed on Grayson. Its posture was mostly calm, but Grayson saw some tension in its legs; it was the posture of a Vampire attempting to convey nonchalance, but secretly waiting for the moment to pounce. Maybe this one didn’t realize how long Grayson had been around.  
  
“Why are you following me?”  
  
“That’s not your concern.”  
  
Grayson lifted his knife, eyes narrowing. “I’d say it is.”  
  
The Vampire’s mouth twisted into a nightmarish thing full of teeth and malice- it was smiling. “If you like.”  
  
It moved so quickly that Grayson almost didn’t see it.  
  
_CRASH._  
  
Grayson slammed into a stack of empty cages, cringing as the flimsy metal broke and tore his clothes, pierced his skin. He forced himself back up as fast as he could, legs almost buckling under his weight. He feigned like he was about to lunge forward, and then- a gamble, not something he’d usually encourage if he were training someone else- hurled the knife at the Vampire’s chest.  
  
Luck was on Grayson’s side for once, because the knife hit dead-center in its chest. The Vampire howled with pain, and then darted forward, swinging-  
  
_WHAM._  
  
Never mind- luck was paying Grayson its usual fickle attention.  
  
Later, it would occur to him that the first hit from the Vampire had- staggeringly- been more like a swat, like someone batting away a fly; the Vampire had not been using its full force. The _second_ hit, on the other hand, had been fueled by rage and pain, and had had much more force behind it. Enough so that when Grayson hit the solid mass of wall behind him, it forced all the air from his lungs and made his vision grow dark and his hearing go fuzzy.  
  
But not _so_ fuzzy that he couldn’t hear the roar that echoed between the buildings.  
  
A dark blur tackled the Vampire with such speed and strength that it sent them slamming into the side of a building, brick crumbling from the force of the impact. Grayson’s vision blurred and darkened alarmingly, and so he could not see quite so clearly what was happening: Only that two large, inhuman figures were wrestling on the dusty ground. There was a watery gurgle, and then a _snap!_\- and one figure fell to the ground.  
  
The other paced over to Grayson.  
  
“Gray? Gray, are you alright?”  
  
Grayson struggled to focus.  
  
The Lycan had won, and it was him standing over him now- which made sense, because there was only one Half-breed that would ever call him ‘Gray’.  
  
Alastair was panting; the sound was far deeper and more menacing than it would have been if he were in human form. This was the third time Grayson had seen him in full Lycan shape (the second in which Alastair was not attempting to murder him) and it still sent a shiver down his spine to be so close to a transformed Lycan, friendly or not. “Gray? Grayson? Are you alright?” Alastair’s long, clawed fingers began to pull at Grayson’s jacket, trying to pull the fabric back so he could see the wound. “Did he bite you? Did you take the Blackwater?”  
  
Grayson didn’t respond, overwhelmed by Alastair’s proximity. Though he understood intellectually that Alastair meant him no harm, he still instinctively reacted with fear to being so close to a Lycan. The fear was a primal one: Though his memories of the actual event were weak, Grayson narrowly survived a Lycan attack shortly before he’d met Sebastien for the first time. Even as an adult, hundreds of years old and able to suppress his fear in favor of action, Grayson could not help the deep _terror _that rose within him at the sight of a transformed Lycan.  
  
“Gray, _talk_ to me!”  
  
Thankfully, Alastair seemed to take Grayson’s lack of communication as a result of the injury and not from fear. He scooped Grayson into his arms (_Christ_ but he was big, even for a Lycan) and, after tensing his legs, sprung up onto a low rooftop. He used one arm to claw his way up from the street-level, using the other to keep Grayson tucked against his chest. Once they reached a sufficiently high rooftop, Alastair carefully deposited Grayson against a wall; after stepping away for a moment, he returned with a dusty curtain that he shook out, folded, and then set on the ground before maneuvering Grayson to lie on top of it. Then he forced some Blackwater down his throat, just in case.  
  
Then Alastair sat down beside him and waited.  
  
Grayson’s vision progressively grew lighter and clearer, and the excruciating pain of his crushed ribs was reduced to a burning ache. “We ought to move,” He croaked.  
  
“What?”  
  
“We-” Grayson cleared his throat, concentrated, and tried to enunciate. “…We ought to _move_. There was a lot of noise. People will come.”  
  
Alastair nodded. “The same thought occurred to me, but it’s been nearly twenty minutes and nothing’s come of it; I suspect we’ll be fine. The people of Whitechapel have a tendency to mind their own business, especially when calling for help means bringing the police and the Order down on their heads. After last year, they’ve no desire for either tramping through their homes.” He sniffed. “How are you now? You’ve stopped bleeding.”  
  
Grayson took stock. He still felt as though he’d been trampled by a team of horses, but no longer felt that dangerous pull to unconsciousness that came with serious, mortal injury. The Blackwater had done its work well. “I’ll live,” He rasped.  
  
Alastair snorted. “Yes, I suppose you will.” It was hard to tell, given the wolfish difference in his features and the sarcasm in his warped voice, but Grayson thought that he could see fear in Alastair’s eyes. “How on Earth did you end up on the wrong side of a Vampire?”  
  
“It was following me.”  
  
“Did it attack you?” Alastair’s expression changed into one that Grayson would recognize anywhere, even with his face transformed. “Or did you provoke it?”  
  
“There may have been some light provocation.”  
  
Alastair made a great show of rolling his eyes and pressing a large, clawed paw to his face, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking idiot, Gray.”  
  
Grayson chuckled without quite meaning to. It wasn’t often that one saw a Lycan in a state of exasperated irritation. It wasn’t often that one saw _any_ Lycan in anything but a state of mad bloodlust, but Grayson was just beginning to get accustomed to it. Or to Alastair, at least. “Perhaps.”  
  
“‘Perhaps’,” Alastair said lightly, mockingly. Then he made a faint rumbling sound. “Let me get my clothes. If you can move, I’ll help you get back to the brothel.”  
  
Grayson laid still and waited, staring up at the gray London skies until he heard movement on the rooftop beside him. Alastair came into view, this time in human form- though no less irate than he’d been in Lycan form. “You’re back.”  
  
“And you’re still an idiot. What were you _thinking?_ I know you’ve been out of the Order for a time, Grayson, but I’d like to think the memory of the Vampires we’ve fought over the years would have stuck with you. _Never_ take them on alone.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”  
  
“Well, you didn’t need to _provoke_ it.” Alastair held out a hand. “Can you stand?”  
  
Grayson took his hand, and grimaced as he hauled himself to his feet with Alastair’s help. “Christ, I’m getting old.”  
  
“Very, very slowly,” Alastair drawled, taking his hand away to see how Grayson stood on his own. “But getting knocked around by a Vampire will simulate the effect of very old age well. I don’t recommend it. Next time, just evade it Grayson.”  
  
“Or summon you?”  
  
Alastair rolled his eyes. “Or summon me. Light off a flare, scream my name as loud as you can, and if you’re lucky maybe I’ll hear you- if you’re not, you’ll be bled dry by a Vampire and I’ll only be able to chastise your corpse.” His voice lost some of its humor. “Just… Christ, Gray, leave it be next time.”  
  
“I’ll take it under consideration.”  
  
No point in arguing, partly because Alastair wasn’t wholly wrong.  
  
Grayson moved slowly towards the edge of the roof, trying to gauge how difficult it would be to climb down. “I can carry you,” Alastair offered.  
  
“Oh Christ no.”  
  
“You didn’t object when I carried you up here.”  
  
“I was half-conscious when you carried me up here. I’m awake enough to have my pride now.”  
  
Alastair shrugged. “Alright then, jump.”  
  
Grayson eyed the difference between the rooftop and the ground below- it wasn’t as far as it could have been, the building only had one story- and knew that it would be unpleasant to make the jump in his condition. But he did have his pride, and so he braced himself and moved to step forward-  
  
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Gray-”  
  
Alastair quickly swept his arms around Grayson’s waist and lifted him, held him against his side, and made the jump. The impact still shook Grayson’s healing bones painfully, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have if he was supporting his own weight. Still, Grayson glared at him. “I could have done it.”  
  
“Yes, and you would have hurt yourself worse than you already are,” Alastair assured him flatly. “And then it would take you longer to get home, which means another Vampire could have found you in that time.” He glanced back in the general direction of the dead Vampire, brow knitting with concern. “And that wouldn’t be good.” He held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll walk with you most of the way. If Lakshmi sees us together she’ll finish what the Vampire started.”  
  
Grayson rolled his eyes, but he took Alastair’s hand anyway, and hobbled off with him towards the _Aux Belles Muses_.  
  
At least if they met anymore Vampires, he’d have a better chance with it than last time.  
  
-End


End file.
